


Look Your Last Upon The Sun

by congratsyouvegrownasoul



Category: Ivanhoe - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Jewish Character, F/M, Wordplay, compassion and confrontation, conflict and memories and being trapped together at Templestowe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 09:14:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17464688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/congratsyouvegrownasoul/pseuds/congratsyouvegrownasoul
Summary: When they play chess, absorbed in fierce, well-matched competition, she is much too close to him for her comfort—and yet still comforted by the presence of another, if she is honest with herself. The walls seem to close in on her then, compressing the two of them together across the checkered game board.





	Look Your Last Upon The Sun

Time seem to take on strange properties of its own, as she waits, confined to the little cluster of small, austere rooms. Secluded deep within the monastery, the hours seem to stretch, dragging on infinitely. But then again, some moments take wings and fly, time rushing past her at breakneck speed. Her imprisonment sometimes flows quickly, the waiting and the worry blurring together. Yet sometimes time seems to almost stop. Sometimes, she feels as if she is quivering on the edge of a great precipice, frozen in the very act of falling. Suspended forever in one living, breathing moment.

For though she is sometimes lonely, she is not alone. And because of the man she shares the confines of these rooms with, the concept of space fluctuates as much as time. Sometimes, the rooms have their natural dimensions, and though they are by no means palatial, there is space to walk. She sits by the window, running her fingers over the sill’s cold rough stone. She does not look out, not wishing for him to know the truth of her longing. Not willing to become vulnerable in her desire for freedom.

But he seems to guess, as he always does. She knows, likewise, that he too yearns to leave these cloistered rooms. She hears it in the pace of his booted feet; endless circling like the mangy, caged lion she saw as a girl, traveling to London with her father, her heart filled with pity then. She sees the frustration she has trained herself not to show etched in his face, when she glances from her seat by the window. She senses the unspent energy in his active body, leaning against the stone walls, watching her take her turn and walk the limited paths within the room.

She knows that they both long to be free of this place, to walk out into the world once again. She remembers the feeling of the wind on her face on the monastery’s tower, the feeling of him leaning across her, pointing out the stone circle on the hill, the hidden lake, telling her the old stories of monsters and magic. It pains her to slowly realize that they are not so different, in the end.

When they pace, when they ignore each other, waiting in silence, each agonizingly conscious of the other’s presence, that is when the rooms, though small, are walled with reason. When, bored and lonely, she is drawn to him, knowing him to be the cause of her imprisonment, yet desperate for company, for the sound of another’s voice, that is when the walls begin to shrink.

When they play chess, absorbed in fierce, well-matched competition, she is much too close to him for her comfort—and yet still comforted by the presence of another, if she is honest with herself. The walls seem to close in on her then, compressing the two of them together across the checkered game board.

The logical part of her mind tells her it is impossible, that this enclosure is merely a result of too much time in the room, and too little space between her and this strange, aggressive, brooding man, her captive captor. The imaginative part of her, however, prevails, and though she tells herself it’s not so, the room insists on feeling smaller and fuller than it has any right to.

She notices details about him, as they sit across from each other, focused on their game. He tilts his head on one side when he makes a difficult decision, and she can almost hear the gears of strategy turning. A small white scar stains the base of his left ring finger, an old burn mark, she thinks. There are delicate wrinkles at the corners of his dark eyes—laughter lines, or the remnants of frowns and scowls? She’s seen the tempest of his moods and guesses it to be a mixture.

 Shared confinement has sharpened her senses, and in her mind he becomes more human. Enforced company builds him up, putting flesh on the bones of bleak villainy his kidnap structured. She could despise a man of shadows, or a creature built from the flames of hell, a being of violent lust, revenge, and burning hatreds. But, when jailed, her jailor becomes a man, though traced with darkness and fire.

In Torquilstone castle, when she cared for Lord Ivanhoe, it was much the same. The heroic figure she had felt girlish attraction to at the tournament, hoping and knowing there was no hope, had grown and diminished, when wounded and weak. She had experienced his kindness, and briefly, shockingly, his kiss. But she knows he will go to his lady, to Rowena, when the choice is presented.

He is a good man, but not a complicated one, and Rowena is not a complicated woman. Rowena offers him love and a shared history to build a shared life. She herself offers stigmas, an uncertain future, and no end to complications.  She is different, and alluring in her difference, and he is drawn to that, but she knows that he will let her go. Happiness is more important than the allure of otherness to him. She does not blame him for it. But she does not deny the truth.

The man she now shares her fluid time and her shifting space with is as complicated as the ever-changing concepts of time and space themselves. Cracks begin to appear in the angry exterior he’s still trying to maintain, and brief flashes of tenderness surprise her. The anger and the arrogance are still part of him, welded to his damaged, long-neglected soul, but she glimpses another side to him. His wounds are less obvious than Ivanhoe’s, but the pain is evident in his desperate attempts to cajole her into loving him—into saving him?

Time trickles by, free to move how it will, toying with her mind, shifting walls, breaking barriers, exposing souls. Alone together, they wait.

Sometimes they talk, as they grapple with each other’s miniature forces, powerful queens chasing crippled kings. Usually he begins the conversations, his voice prying at her, opening her up. She does not mind his speech as much as she might have thought. He has a powerful mind, and they are equal in intellect as well as stubbornness.

They argue much because of this, each turning the other’s words back upon their master like a crooked blade. She is not used to having a partner in debate, and part of her glories in the challenge as much as she glories in having a skilled opponent at chess, and one who is not so well-known, not so predictable as her beloved father.

As she moves her surviving bishop, mapping out a path to take his king in her head, he breaks the silence, moving his eyes to focus on her.

“Where did you get the medicine to cure Ivanhoe?”

It’s such an odd comment, completely unexpected, that she is momentarily caught off guard, fingers still curled around the chess piece, suspended above the board.

“Excuse me?”

He waves a hand, an expansive, impatient gesture.

“At Torquilstone, during the fire. He was standing already. His wounds in the tourney should have meant death, without proper healing. Surely it was you who saved him?”

She nods, lifting her chin to return the challenge in his eyes. Let him know she cared for his enemy. Let him know she healed the wrathful cuts of his sword. Let him judge her for her ministering, as she judges him for that wrath, those cuts.

“And where did you find the medicine?”

“Why do you wish to know?”

“Idle curiosity, Rebecca. Nothing more. I do not seek to punish you for it.”

“Oh?”

“As cruel as I may seem to you, a doctor’s care does not provoke my anger.”

“You think me a doctor, then? Not a girl who happens to know the uses of a few herbs and poultices? An oddity?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Anyone who could heal a death wound with a few herbs and poultices would be an oddity, whether man or woman.”

“Perhaps you are too confident in your abilities as a swordsman.”

He laughs out loud.

“If you are a better healer than I am a swordsman, then I am truly impressed. But Ivanhoe lives, so I suppose you have indeed surpassed me.”

“Ulrica helped us,” Rebecca allows. “She sympathized with our plight. I told her what I needed, and she brought them.”

“Ah. Perhaps I should have guessed that.”

“Do you mean to keep me prisoner until my mind snaps, like hers?”

She can’t keep her voice from quivering slightly. The fire at Torquilstone still haunts her, and although she feels deeply for poor Ulrica, she wishes the older woman had not been forced to such a violent end.

He has the decency to avoid her eyes.   

“I—I am not like Front-de-Boeuf. I would never hurt you like that.”

“Some say you can tell a man’s character by the company he keeps.”

“I have no love for Front-de-Boeuf. He was an ally, not a friend. Unfortunately, a soldier must often find common cause with men such as him.”

“Perhaps you should not have.”

“Would you have had me become a priest instead of a Templar? Or a hermit, or a Jew?”

“I would have had you become a better man.”

She bites her lip, unsure if she’s said too much, or if emotion has too strongly inflected the cadence of her voice.

“You still could.”

His voice is suddenly, uncharacteristically quiet.

Desperate for a distraction, she seizes upon the chess board.

“My bishop takes your queen, Sir Brian. It’s my turn to pose a question.”

“What do you want to know?”

“The woman, years ago, who broke your heart. What was she like?”

His face hardens, hands clenching involuntarily. For a long, silent moment, Rebecca expects him to refuse.

“You know, it was so long ago, I can hardly remember her face. Isn’t that strange? I used to lie awake at night dreaming of her, and now I’ve forgotten. I’ve not seen her in twenty years—perhaps she’s dead, for all I know. She had dark hair, I know that, and blue eyes—or maybe they were green? I remember she used to feed my horse sugar lumps, and she loved poetry, and she would scold me if she found out I had missed Matins. And I still remember the betrayal I felt when she found another husband. I never wanted to feel that pain again—so I became a different person, with a different life.”

“Was it worth it?”

“Two questions is one too many, Rebecca. It’s almost evening and the nighthawks are calling. You might want to sit by the window and watch the sunset. I know you glance out, when you think I don’t see.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> The first half of this was originally written in 2012, and the second half today, although I also edited some of the original text. I've often wanted to return to Ivanhoe and to this wonderfully complex pairing, and I hope our small fan community enjoys. This story is primarily rooted in the 1997 miniseries, my original introduction to Ivanhoe, but the title is from the book.


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